After
by destinykeyblade
Summary: The Revolutionary War was a heavy toll on all parties involved - not only the citizens, but the nations as well. After all was done, those nations looked back on it with remorse. How could things have gone this far...? Rated T for death and slight gore.


Hello to all those who were kind enough to click on my humble fanfiction. Before I babble anything else, thanks! Now then... This story was written after I watched the movie _The Patriot_. If you haven't seen it and you're interested in historical fiction, go check it out. Anyways, the Revolutionary War was fresh in my mind, and so, randomly emotional about it (the only time I can say I love my country and mean it is when I'm watching Hetalia XD) I went and attacked my computer/keyboard. This... is the end result. Please not that at the time of this story's creation, I had not seen America's Storage Room Cleaning. To be completely honest, I _still_ haven't, but I have seen the one clip of the Revolution. So. Anyway. Please enjoy yourselves!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the conversations and interactions between America, England, and their 'special guest.'

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Death. Blood. Fire. Smoke.

The fetid smells encircled him as he stood in the center of what had once been a verdant green field; now, it was a morgue. Bodies lay strewn around him, broken, twisted into unnatural positions. Even in death, pain, fear, shock and regret could be seen clearly on the faces of these men - those that still had faces. Limbs and pieces were missing from at least a third of them, heads included, and half of those retaining their heads had had their faces shot off or mangled. Though the battle had been over for hours, blood still poured from their gaping wounds as they stared accusingly up at him with darkened eyes. And as well they should. After all, it was his fault they had died.

Footfalls broke the silence of the dead men, signaling the approach of another that lived. He didn't have to turn to know who it was.

"America." He twitched his hands, clasped behind his back, to show that he had heard. Perhaps the other man would understand that he was in no mood to speak and leave... But that had never been very likely, he thought to himself as a hand gently touched his shoulder. "America?"

"Look," he said quietly, and his voice sounded raw and broken even to his own ears. "Look at what we've done." The hand slipped off as its owner obeyed, somberly gazing out at the countless corpses. "This is what has come of our anger at one another. How many men have died because of us, England? How many sons and brothers, husbands and fathers, have we stolen from those who loved them?"

He tore his eyes away from the tortured faces, turning them instead on his companion. England stood beside him, his bright red coat in stark contrast with America's own dark blue, much as the flamboyant feathered hat atop his head contrasted with the simple folded one that was now in America's hand. Seeing this, England quickly removed his own, joining the younger man in showing respect to the dead. Both blue eyes and green slid closed as each of the men said a mental prayer for the souls of those around them, but America soon fixed England with a hard stare again.

"We've failed," he said, and England's head tilted slightly to the side.

"...What do you mean?" he asked when America didn't continue.

"Are we supposed to protect our people, England?"

He blinked several times in succession. "Well, yes, of course we are," he stammered, confused. "I thought you knew th-"

"Then we've failed," America interrupted bitterly, his gaze falling again to the soldiers on the ground. "Because of our squabbling, these men are dead. They will never return to their families, _because of us_. Don't assume I've forgotten why we fought," he said, seeing England open his mouth only to close it again at the harshness of his tone, "for that is something that I can never forget. Your people were mistreating mine, and you know it. But still..." His voice grew soft and remorseful, the anger leaving it. "If we had not been at odds with eachother as we were, our hostility could not have influenced them, and so we have failed."

Again England's hand found its way to America's shoulder, still gripping gently, but this time to comfort and commiserate. "That we have," he replied in a hushed voice, his eyes sweeping over the half-destroyed landscape. "I... I'm ashamed that I let things go this far. And... I... my men... I'm so sorry for what... became of them..."

"I'm sorry for them all," America said, his hands clenching into fists as he struggled to hold back tears. "Blue coats, red coats; English, American... It doesn't matter what they wore, or where they lived. They were all men... and now, after it's over and done... they are all dead men."

He turned to England and looked him straight in the eye, solemnity and honesty shining in his own. "I don't ever want to fight with you again, England. I _won't_ ever fight you again."

The red-coated man nodded in agreement. "No more of this," he said.

America eyed him suspiciously. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do," England answered, frowning. "Why wo-"

"Then follow me," America said, interrupting him once more and placing his hat back on his head.

"Wha- where?"

"We are going to draw up a treaty, right now, and we are both going to sign it. Words, for some reason, seem to hold more meaning when they've been scribbled on a bit of parchment. Yet more proof of the ignorance that the entire world seems to be possessed of."

England again blinked at his colony- _former_ colony, he reminded himself with another glance at the bodies that littered the battlefield, riddled with gashes from swords and bullet holes from obvious weapons. America was no longer under his control, having won freedom for himself and his people - at the cost of the lives of thousands of men. "That's a very... adult thing for such a young nation to say," he commented, looking at the blue-eyed blonde as though he'd never seen him before. Those same blue eyes, only seconds ago bright with emotion, grew dim, and despite his youthful features, he suddenly looked very old.

"War has a way of aging those involved in it," he said, almost silently. "Innocence is stolen as the burdens of the mind begin to pile up, and the heavier that pile becomes, the longer time seems to stretch on. Months - even weeks - become as years when you're at war..." He shook himself then, throwing off the dark mantle that had settled over him. "Which is why we're going to sign that treaty- _now_."

The two traveled across the broken earth, occasionally dodging cadavers and cannon balls until they reached a small war tent. Inside, America tossed things about until he located a quill, some ink, and that 'bit of parchment' he had mentioned earlier. The nations then discussed the terms of their new rapport, and, after a few minor arguments and several revisions, the treaty was written and signed. As England put down the feather that served as a writing utensil, a shadow appeared on the canvas wall, and someone else ducked into the tent.

"America-" he began, but cut off when he saw that the one he'd been speaking to was not alone. England, for his part, leapt to his feet immediately, scrabbling for his blade.

"YOU!" he bellowed furiously at the newcomer, lunging toward him. France dodged and dashed back outside, drawing his own sword in preparation to fight. England, having followed, now circled the other blonde, a low growl emitting from his throat. "I am going to slice you to ribbons," he informed his opponent matter-of-factly.

"Not if you cannot catch me," France said cockily, doing a sort of mid-circle dance that served only to anger England further.

It was at this point that America burst from the tent, hands on his hips like a naggy woman as he yelled half angrily, half despairingly, "England, you just signed a treaty SWEARING that you would not fight-"

"You!" England broke in. "I never said anything about fighting _HIM_!"

They ran at one another, and America sighed as the sound of clashing steel rang out through the otherwise still air. "Some things never change," he mumbled to himself, running a hand through his hair. He watched for a few moments longer, forced to suppress a smile at France's antics and expressions as he teased and taunted England, but soon walked away, leaving them to it. Some things didn't change, but others did. A big change had just encompassed the whole of the United States, as they would now be called, and as amusing as his fellow nations' (somewhat) playful squabbles were, he had people to take care of.

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This was too dark and depressing; I had to throw in some comedy. _Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Bonnefoy!_ Anyways, the French sent reinforcements to their American allies, thus assisting in the winning of the war. So I figured it couldn't hurt to have Frog show up and aggravate Iggy ;P I hope you enjoyed reading; reviews, while not a necessity of life, are much appreciated :3 'Til next time!


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